Minstrels

By David Phillips

Country singer Judd Rich is frustrated. His gigs go well but he is getting nowhere and his next gig is out of Darwin, miles from country music action. Mick Turner is a drunk and feels he is washed up for good. He needs something to fire him up or he feels there may be nothing to live for. They meet by chance and for each of them there is a chance to find exactly what it is they want so badly. Can Mick recreate the successful outcomes he was able to achieve in earlier days as a creative promoter of day to day products? Can Judd create the songs he will need to be noticed and finally have a recognised CD? Judd meets Anne and falls in love. Will this help him or make things more difficult? Mick meets Veronica and they never can work out how they feel for each other. Cal Aitken joins the group. He can sing and he can play. How will this affect the relationships within the troupe as they travel the Australian country singing their songs to country music fans? This is a story about people, country music people, travelling the country and pouring out their music to a growing number of dedicated fans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Oct 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781742845395

David Phillips

David Phillips (FCPA, retired) spent most of his career in finance and management. The first period of his retirement was enjoyed as a hobby farmer in the Acheron Valley, north of Melbourne. From a very early age he had a guitar, wrote songs, sang with bands and solo, always as a hobby alongside a career but always with passion and pleasure. He enjoyed fifties rock but soon found country music to be his favourite genre. In his final years of retirement he has become enchanted with writing and MINSTRELS! is the first of what he hopes will be several works before his time is up!

Book preview

MINSTRELS!

COUNTRY MUSIC AND GOLDEN GUITARS

David Phillips

Minstrels!

Copyright © 2015 David Phillips

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742845-39-5 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author′s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

MINSTRELS!

COUNTRY MUSIC AND GOLDEN GUITARS

Contents

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MICK

His head pounded as though it might split in two. Yet again he was a victim by his own hand, the hand that held out the scruffy banknotes and assorted indiscriminate coins to the bloke behind the bar and the hand that purveyed the frosty glass to the greedy lips.

He moaned, knowing the wisdom of remaining prone but, despite himself, raised first head, then torso. The pain was deep, throbbing, lasting. Another disastrous night, another day of regrets to come.

He was 62 and showing every year. He was of average height and weight, of average appearance. Greyish hair, grey eyes, dentures, flattened nose once patrician, square jaw and a stern visage. Potentially, he was a fine looking man but the damage he was doing was imposing itself.

In the normal of those of advancing years his mind drifted to things he had done and things he should have done. As he strived to clear the effects of the night before the mind somehow enabled memories to pulsate through the detritus.

He was consumed with the sads. What is it all about? Why am I where I am? What will I do? Where did I go wrong?

This last concern was the stimulus. A dozen events clamoured for attention. He felt the heaviness of his countless failings.

Mick Turner. Loser!

* * *

MICHAEL

Michael Turner had been born as the world celebrated the end of the second World War, the war to end all wars. Of course, he knew that was bullshit. His dad he never knew had died in France in the mud and slush so many generals failed to experience and yet found to surely be but a minor impediment to performance. He hated generals from an early age. His mother remained heartbroken for the rest of her days and was tolerant of the son as he grew to have a number of flaws in his make-up.

He enjoyed school because there he had some mates and had some fun. There was no fun in his home. His results showed a boy with above average ability and he studied quite well to keep solace and evenness when at home.

The Tilley lamp hissed away on the dining room table and his school books were always at hand while his mother knitted in silent grieving as year overtook year.

The problems for Michael occurred in between the hours either at school or at home with his non-communicative mother. His inherent energy and mischievous streak led him consistently into scrapes causing some people to actively dislike the boy.

Mr Watson′s orchard was an irresistible attraction. And Mr Watson hated kids climbing his fences and stealing his fruit. He kept a shot gun loaded with grape shot with every intention of using the weapon as a deterrent, as he was to put it. Michael had copped a few pellets in the bum over the years.

One Sunday morning, after the mandatory Sunday school attendance, he and a few other lads decided to mount a raid on the pride of Mr Watson, the apple orchard. It needed some careful planning and Michael outlined the best way to get away with pockets full of the ripe beauties.

However, Mr Watson was ready to defend his pride and joy. He was ecstatic at the fineness of the fruit and his antenna was in high sensitivity as to any danger to his crop. On such a lovely morning he determined to be especially vigilant.

The boys fanned out and took up positions. This was to be a flash raid, divide and conquer, share the spoils. At a signal they stormed the orchard, setting a bee-line for the deliciously ripe Jonathan apples right in the middle of the orchard. The advance was not quite as silent as was planned and there was enough excited calling between the interlopers to alert the defender of the fruit.

Mr Watson ran as fast as his short fat legs would carry him, arriving just as the boys took off with pockets full. He had two barrels of distress and revenge and he aimed and fired with purpose. Two howls of pain and anguish accompanied the undignified retreat.

Michael was unscathed by the pellets but would not escape the aftermath.

Jimmy Allen and Bruce Stevens sustained multiple pellet wounds in bum and back and their parents required action against Mr Watson and Michael Turner, the ringleader. The involvement of the police became mandatory in following up the claims of the aggrieved parents who, of course, insisted that their children were good lads and victims in the affair.

Michael′s mother was pointedly ignored by other parents as a result of this mischief and this hurt Michael far more than any direct criticism. At the same time she seemed not to notice any change in local attitudes and nothing was said in the family home of the incident.

Mr Watson was in a fair amount of trouble. Shooting at people was frowned upon. The boys were admonished by the police who were well able to remember their own youthful activities and the raids on local orchards. In the end, after all had been threatened with further action and left to lament their actions, the matter was allowed to blow over.

This left Michael with an empty feeling.

* * *

MICK

Mick had to get to work. He doused his head under the bathroom tap and towelled off. The mirror showed him a sorry sight. He let out an involuntary groan. Is this really me? I need some incentive to drag me out of this spiral. Got to get to work.

He earned his keep cleaning up the bar and the kitchen at the Hut Hotel on the Arnhem Highway on the way out of Darwin on the road to Jabiru. The owners allowed him a spot out the back for his Toyota camper van and kept him in bar money by giving him a job that nobody else seemed to want. The problem for Mick was the total convenience of the bar and the lack of any activity other than the work and the drink.

He headed over to the pub and started the clean-up. He straightened up the tables and chairs, washed down the bar, mopped the floor. He felt the drain of the tediousness of his life. Somehow today the job was the lowest point of all. He had no reason to stay and no reason to leave, no reason to his life. He continued to clean and straighten.

It wasn′t always like this. A lovely wife, two beaut boys, a flash house and a high-flying job in advertising. Long lunches, big deals, name in lights, a real comer. Piss-up sessions after work with the boys and with the clients who were players. Then the flops, the campaigns that he pushed to the clients but that failed to push on to the public. The warnings and the warning signs. The piss-ups with any old bar fly, the clients suddenly too busy to catch up with him.

The writing on the wall.

Another job, then another. Lost his mojo. The creativity only turned up late in the evening with a load aboard. Then the wife, had enough and throwing him out of the home and the life he had thought was perfect. Rock bottom. Or so he thought at the time.

He swept up a broken glass and some cigarette butts from under a table. Shit! If some of the boys from the early days could see him now. A dero. Am I? Could I get off the grog? Strewth, what a question. Need to. But how?

He forced it out of his mind. Just concentrate on this shitty bar with its shitty floor and its shitty kitchen.

* * *

MICHAEL

They had met at a function to release a television promotion for Love Baby Wear. She was a shop girl at one of the outlets. He was the genius who had put together the campaign. The ads were running on several screens through the night as the liquor flowed and the happiness spread.

The managing director had made a speech to introduce the campaign to his staff and had lauded Michael Turner as the man who had conceived the campaign and come up with the final, brilliant, series of advertisements. And so when Sue met up with him at the drinks counter she was already quite impressed. When he drove her home in his late model ′beamer′ she noted that he seemed to be a sure fire success. He made no move on her that night. He hoped for a longer-term relationship than was his usual affair.

They became regulars at company functions and at the various get-togethers of their combined friendship groups. They went to dances, movies and shows. They were in love. In time they were wed.

The two boys came along and the second house was a fine cottage-style home on the shores of Port Phillip Bay south east of Melbourne. Promotions were earned and the financial situation provided no concern. All was rosy in the Turner home.

The seeds of discontent were about to sprout.

The very success and seemingly happy home life were the fertile ground. Michael felt that he could get away with anything on the home front and his regular wins at work led to many diversions, many involving excessive amounts of alcohol.

Sue became shrewish on the rare occasion that there was a conversation that lasted long enough for her to register her despair. She could see where they were heading but Michael was oblivious. He just proceeded on with the dream lifestyle of the successful advertising executive.

* * *

MICK

Mick was trying to think. When did he become Mick? His mother only ever called him Michael. Sue still only called him Michael when he rang to see how the boys were getting along.

But somewhere along the way he became Mick. He′d have to think that one through. Up north he had only been Mick.

He finished up the cleaning, put away the mops and brooms and bucket and went out the back to his camper van. He went straight to the fridge for a cold beer but then held up. Changed his mind. Made a sandwich. Can he do this? Today, tomorrow. Strewth! A beer goes with a sandwich. No. Not this time. Mick Turner! Knocking back a cold beer. Strewth!

He took the ′sanger′ outside and took a swig of water from the tap on the water tank and found a seat in the shade of an acacia. This thinking was strange. Made me make a small change so soon. Weird. Can I make some changes for the better?

He took his usual nap in the camper van, a normal thing for him to do as he slept off the remnants of the previous night and allowed the mind and body to prepare for the next night of excess.

He woke in plenty of time to meet his mates in the pub but this time he held back for a while. Just sat in the camper thinking about things.

He looked around the van and realised it was a bit of a mess. So he went to work tidying and wiping down until he felt his little home was not too bad. It needed more but that could wait. The pub was calling now.

He went into the pub and was greeted with the where have you been? Have you got the evening papers? Old sleepyhead! Mick′s just getting too old for his mates! Wanna beer Mick? Silly question!

The cold beer slipped down the gullet so smoothly, so deliciously that it was quickly joined by a second, a third and others. The friendly atmosphere of mate-ship and sheer fun was the whole point of a night at the pub. Tonight was just beaut. All his mates, all in good form and the best beer on the face of the earth. How good is it just to be alive.

* * *

MICHAEL

It had been a great day. The presentation to the full executive of the national clothing retailer had been perfect and the response to the series of advertisements was extremely enthusiastic. Michael had laid out the campaign and the creative elements holding it together. The consumer had been researched diligently and all aspects of the campaign addressed the findings of the research.

The group adjourned to a nearby restaurant to celebrate the forthcoming release and join in some back-slapping and mutual admiration. Michael was on top of the world. The whole deal had been his baby, from the initial approach through to the design and execution of all aspects of the campaign.

This day is the highest point of my career! The thought kept running through his mind. He continually received congratulations from the client and from his own people present for the unveiling of the climax of the campaign and continually had someone placing a full glass into his hand. The night began to blur as the excitement and the alcohol began to have its effect.

One of the women in the client′s executive group was also imbibing in excess and was also impressed with the presentation and the man from Melbourne who laid it out so well. Michael had taken a suite at the Hilton in Sydney for the few days of his visit. Jan Wellington was one of those who accepted Michael′s offer to a night cap or two in his suite. Gradually the numbers reduced as the night became the following morning. Eventually, Jan was the only remaining guest and this was no surprise given her inebriated condition and her growing friendliness with Michael. She had carefully avoided the few offers from fellow workers to drop her off at home or at a taxi rank. She had other ideas.

They were both well advanced in terms of alcoholic affliction and both were ready for a bit of true friendship. The final two drinks were left unfinished and, with neither asking nor answering, they proceeded to get naked and together. They were both hungry and selfish in the act but by some unlikely coincidence reached fulfilment together convincing each that they had been the perfect lover.

Fitful, drunken, debauched sleep fell to the pair. The awakening brought aching heads, uneasy greetings, fumbling risings. Then, in a sudden u-turn they were holding each other greedily and fell back to the sheets and joined again. Again, there was no finesse and, yet again, a synchronised completion.

Now they were familiar and relaxed in their nudity and their unpreparedness. They talked about breakfast and decided to go to the restaurant, each hating the idea of room service breakfasts. They showered and dressed for the day and found a table. They chatted as old friends and, in the course of overcoming the embarrassment of the first flush of the day became intimates in the various ways this can take place.

The word got around. It got back to Melbourne and all the staff in the office. It found its way to Sue. It was the beginning of the end.

* * *

MICK

Mick woke with a familiar feeling. A bloody sore head and a feeling that he was about to throw up and a deep despair. The empty feeling that one has when a sincere compact with self is broken. The syndrome of worthlessness.

He dragged himself to upright and brewed coffee. He went out and sat by the tank stand on an upturned steel bucket. This is serious!

He tipped out the dregs and went to work. This lousy job is all I have between myself and the end. He cleaned frantically, as if his life depended on keeping the job and keeping himself together and knowing that it was so.

The place was dead quiet as he had arisen and started the job earlier than usual. Now he was worried as to what he would do when he finished early. Better not, better keep working, do it all over.

It came to him that he was scared. Scared stiff that he could not handle the problem that two days ago and for the past five years or more he had denied and which therefore had not existed.

He found things to clean or rearrange that he had not worried about previously. He went under and around and above and through every nook, cranny and crevice and stretched the job out to a late lunch, making a quick exit to his camper for a light lunch and a lie down. This avoided talking to anyone while he anguished over the situation he had brought upon himself.

He could ignore it and keep on hitting the piss with his mates but that would now mean breaking trust with himself and lead to his destruction.

He could stop drinking cold turkey as people cut out the smokes but he knew that he could not trust himself on this course and he would have to leave this place and his mates.

The need to manage his recovery meant instilling discipline into every hour of every day. Could he do this? He did not want the AA approach. He had to find a way to limit the intake of alcohol every time it arose. It was a big call given his life experience, but the only call he could make.

He was about to curse the drink when he reminded himself that it was not the alcohol that had caused the problem. It was Mick Turner who was at fault.

* * *

MICHAEL

On his return from Sydney the giggling of the female clerical staff and the smirks on the faces of the men in the office irritated Michael and he left the office early and went to one of his favourite places for a quiet cool drink and a bit of think time. What goes at the office? Have I caused some problem of which I′m in the dark? Or will the whole thing blow over when they realise what a success I pulled off with the client?

What about Sue? Will she hear about the after-the-show shenanigans? I need to come up with a story to cover myself. I need to be convincing if she accuses me of humping one of the client′s managers. Shit! Trust me to turn my moment of glory into a possible disaster.

I thought there′d be a big crowd waiting to shake my hand and slap me on the back for the incredible win. Instead just a few gave me a quiet well-done while others appeared embarrassed to get too close. Bloody unreal! The hero returns, the hero is a joke!

The gin and tonics were cool and sweet but the taste in the mouth was dry and unpleasant, his concern growing as he became certain that Sue knew. The ones in the office who had been jealous of his recent successful campaigns would not be able to contain themselves when she rang to find out why he was a day late in returning from the harbour city.

He would have to face her. She would want him to show her that he was innocent because she did not want the shame of a separation or, worse, a divorce. Their marriage was not much to write home about any more but break-ups were hard on the wife and could end a man′s career. And then there were the boys and the ruinous effect it could have on their futures - the choice of schools, the dad effect, the sports involvements. He would have to keep his cool and be prepared to be long suffering and patient in order to hold his life as he knew it together.

So he had a few more drinks and then a few of the regulars came in and joined him at the bar and so he had a few more drinks. By the time he left the bar he was well past the point of being capable of the attitude he would need to meet his defined needs of conciliation.

He arrived home and was greeted with the wall of silence, the usual response he received after a late night or a load of alcohol. The way he felt directed him to keep a very low profile this night. Sue would not want a yelling match in front of the boys. He retired to the spare room dinner-less and fell asleep at once.

As drunks will after an boozy night he awoke at 3 am with little chance of getting any further sleep. This left him time to think of the impending doom at work and at home. At this point he was sure he was in deep shit.

Would he be forced out of the family home? Would he be forced to look for another position? Would his boys hate him? Will his mess-ups affect his prospects with other companies?

* * *

MICK

Tom Byrne owned the pub. He′d noticed a few small changes with Mick and, being a man who spoke his mind, he fronted Mick and asked him if there was something bothering him.

Mick had to decide if he would have anything to say about it to the bloke who was, in effect, his boss but was also a mate.

He asked Tom to give him a bit of time to get back to him and that there was nothing that Tom had done to upset him in any way.

So Tom had spotted him going through his problems and he would have a fair idea what it was all